The Key
by Jen Littlebottom
Summary: At the beginning of the Fourth Age, old enemies forge new alliances, and not all that was buried remains lost.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The world belongs to Tolkien; the words alone are mine.

A/N:  Set in the early Fourth Age, after the fall of Sauron.  The Mouth of Sauron was a lieutenant in the army of Mordor, under the command of Sauron.  (He will be in the movie, I've just found out – yay!).  Alatar and Pallando were two out of five of the Istari (wizards, like Saruman and Gandalf), who went east and were never heard of again.  The other wizard, Radagast, will probably also appear in this at some point.

Thanks to Claudia for the beta.

He left the horse at the edge of the sea of Rhûn – he'd run the useless beast into the ground, until neither his sorcery nor the sheer force of his almighty will could persuade it to go further.  He did not have the time to bleed it dry, to take what power he might from it – he was fleeing now, the admission near-painful.  Beaten down by a rabble of Elves and Men, by creatures that he thought were long put beneath him.

Ah, but there was a certain freedom he had now.  The bonds that Sauron had put upon him were gone – his actions were his own.  And the secret that he held; not even Saruman had known of that.  He turned and spat back in the direction of Gondor, and of the Elf-Kingdoms.  Let them rejoice, the fools.  He would return, and when he did, that self-proclaimed King would have nothing more to rule but ashes and dust.

He would need a name, he thought.  He'd long forgotten his mother-given name, although not quite forgotten his mother – he had an occasional flash of memory, heard in his mind a snatch of cradle-song sung to a beloved son, and then quelled it as quickly as he could.  Sentiment helped nobody.  Emotions made you weak, and he who had been called the Mouth of Sauron abhorred weakness.

He'd spoken naught but the tongue of Orcs for many years, too many, but a tongue formed in their harsh language would not suit his purpose.  Adûnaic, the language of his ancestors, brought with it too many painful memories.  In the end, he settled upon a name in the Elvish tongue, for the mere fact that it amused him to bend the words of that people to his own purpose.  Morglin, he named himself, dark gleam, named for the flash of a blade in the dark that was the last thing many of his enemies had seen.

On the horizon, a small settlement could be seen—a fishing village, most likely.  Morglin smiled a dark smile, and headed towards it.  Where there were people, he could find a horse.  His destination was still far to the east.  Once again, he slipped his prize from beneath his doublet, turning it over in his hands.

A few years back some Orcs under his command had taken it upon themselves to despoil some barrows they'd found, to the north of Khand.  The locals had avoided the spot, seemingly consumed with fear.  But his troops did not know fear; or rather, they feared him, and his master, more than they could have feared anything else.

The place was protected by magic; twelve were killed in the act of breaching the wards, another five he drained the life from to cast his own spell in reply.  The middle barrow had been the largest, yet the plainest; while the surviving orcs squabbled over gold and mithril trinkets, no doubt only to be piled in the corner of their filthy hovels and forgotten about, he had stood inside it, and stared.

Upon the walls the words were clear as day, undimmed by the passage of ages.  _Alatar I was, and shall remain.  In my keeping the Key lies – Pallando alone knows the way to the door.  Fallen we were, but none can fall so far as to fade from the sight of the One._

It did not look like a key; in fact, it did not look like much at all, although when Morglin caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye it sometimes seemed to change shape.  In the palm of the hand it was sometimes warm, sometimes ice-cold; at night he dreamt of it.

The Key.  He'd tracked the story down, whispers of myth and legend, notes scribbled by madmen upon scraps of human skin.  He'd turned magic to it, scrying in crystal and blood; he dared not try the Palantir.  Bit by bit, the secrets of the world had unfolded, the truth unveiled. 

The Key to a lock unthought-of; the key to the Void.  A way to release Morgoth, to bring about the Dagor Dagorath.  He held in his hand the power to destroy the world, and create it anew.

He had said nothing of it to Sauron.

He smiled once more, tucking his prize back into a hidden pocket.  He had a Blue Wizard to hunt down, and a destiny to fulfil.

A/N: Dagor Dagorath: The great battle at the end of the world, when the armies of Morgoth, the first Dark Lord, and those of Manwë, his brother, and highest of all the Valar, will do battle to decide the fate of the world forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See the first chapter.

It took him three years to track the wizard down.  Three years of dealing with the Easterlings, at first scattered and afraid of retribution from the West, and then later on and further East, suspicious and quick to doubt him and his words.

He supposed that was fair enough.  They lived a hard life in a hard land; here, as it was in Mordor, there was no place for weaklings.  He'd shown them respect he did not feel in his heart; and they believed it.  And he followed whispers, rumours, ever further East, until word came.

This tribe was fatter, far better off than its neighbours, but no more intelligent, and entrance was easily gained.  Too soon it was his blade at the knife of the guard's throat.  Too soon.  Too easy, and that was a worry, a thought prickling at the back of his mind, for nothing was ever this easy.

"Take me to Pallando," he said, in the speech of his captive, but the man shook his head, frightened beyond words.

"Pallando," he repeated, then realised he might be known by another name.  He tried to think of the words to explain to this ingrate.  "The Wise One.  The Blue…" The blade in his hand twitched, feeling his anger – yes, his knife was as thirsty for blood as he was, but this was more important.  This was vital.

"Pallando?"  The word was drawled, each syllable stretched out over the tongue as if it was a fresh piece of meat to be savoured, before being devoured.  "That, my friend, is a name I have not heard for a long time.  It is a name to conjure with, if you will pardon the expression."

Morglin gaped, dropping the guard to the ground.  Not since – not since a thin young man bearing an angry scar and a sorrowed heart had walked into Mordor, alone, unfrightened, and said, "Take me.  _Teach me,_" – not since then, not since Sauron had anyone had this effect on him.

Not since Sauron had anyone been able to pierce him with a gaze, sift through each fibre of his being as if testing for weakness, usefulness, prying into the darkest corners of his soul with the ease and carelessness with which a child squashes ants.

Pallando smiled, his eyes ice-blue and ice-cold, and in his pocket Morglin felt the Key hum in recognition.

"Come, Morglin," he said, turning away without looking to see if his words would be obeyed.  "We have business to discuss."

-----

There was not much to do in Imladris these days.  The Orcs were all but gone from this corner of the world, pushed back into hiding in the far reaches of the mountains where few travelled.  Anything that needed doing, Celeborn could be assured that his grandsons would be more than capable of handling it.

Which left him to enjoy a little time to himself, working through the most excellent cellars of wine Elrond had left behind, and carefully transcribing copies of some of the old legends, as gifts to Arwen and Estel, and to Faramir of Ithilien, who had taken one look at the libraries of Rivendell and, it seemed, nearly died of jealousy.

Dipping his quill into a pot of green ink, he carefully inscribed a border of mallorn leaves around the edge of the copy of the Lay of Leithian he was working on; this was for Arwen and Estel, which went without saying.  In an act of pure whimsy, he drew two swallows, chasing each other around the page, which was then laid to dry beside its fellows.

Just then, a breeze blew through the room.  It disturbed the drying pages only a little, luckily, but the tapestries shivered and Celeborn did so as well, wondering when the autumn had turned so cold.  A loud thump behind him made him jump; but when he turned around, it seemed all it had been was a book falling from a pile stacked overly-high.

Frowning, he headed over to pick it up.  He recognised it as the story of the Ruin of Doriath; not something he chose to dwell on often, certainly.  Even as he reached down towards it, the wind started up again, colder than before.  Voices wafted on the breeze, songs sang of a forgotten past.

As if in a trance, he took it into his hands.  The pages turned of their own accord; Celeborn of Doriath looked down, and screamed in anguish.

A/N: Some Silm. references here.  The Lay of Leithian is the story of Lúthien and Beren, and Doriath was the home of Lúthien and also of Celeborn in his youth, but was destroyed at the end of the first age with a large chunk of the west of Middle-earth.

Pallando, like the other Wizards, was the same kind of being as Sauron – a Maia.  It is not unsurprising, therefore, that he has a similar effect on poor Morglin.  The next chapter will be longer – promise!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: As before, it all belongs to Tolkien, and not to me.

Various references to Silm. characters and historical figures will be explained at the bottom of the chapter.  Thanks to those few who have reviewed so far.  You are all lovely.

_It burned.  Back through memory Celeborn spiralled, helpless, unshielded.  Remembered last kisses by the seaside, and the look in Galadriel's eyes – she'd known, known that he was bound here, bound to the children of Kementarí, to the world of his youth.  Known that he would never come to the shores of Valinor to meet with her, Artanis, beloved forever and nevermore…_

"Grandfather?"

_And that memory lead to thoughts of another farewell, of angry words bitten back as he saw the tears in the eyes of Elrond, a reflection of his own despair, and beheld for the last time his daughter, Celebrían, the scars on her body fading, but the scars on her soul still vivid, a reminder of his failure…_

"Elrohir, come quickly!"  Elladan frowned as he looked down at the prone figure of his Grandfather, eyes blank as if in Reverie – but his skin as cold as ice.

_Failure… Eluréd and Elurín, who had once declared him their 'favourite cousin', lost in the darkness.  Friends and comrades, falling all around him, and was he not kin slayer too?  For many of the hosts of the sons of Fëanor had fallen at his hands, and even in Lórien, where the Mallyrn wrapped him round, protecting his dreams, he would, on occasion, wake with a start – thinking to see blood on his hands…_

Elrohir knelt beside Celeborn, barely managing not to panic.  No herbs or potions would bring his grandfather back – he knew enough of healing to know this was no illness, no wound of the body.  He raised his eyes to meet those of his brother, and an agreement passed between them.

_Back, back, back through the mists into memories that were not his own – darkness in the east, always in the east – falling, falling, the purpose that had brought them to these shores long forgotten, and before, before – before, when the dark one had offered, and many kin had gone, gone to burn in flame, in power, and they had resisted, yet in the heart of he who Alatar had named friend there was yet a dark kernel remaining…_

The twins each took one of Celeborn's cold, still hands in their own, raising their other palms to each other to complete the circuit.  Seldom had they tried this – their father had trained them only a little in these arts, though as twins they had an unique gift for the ways of the mind.  Elladan had long wondered if it had something to do with Elros – but there was no time to wonder now.  Taking a deep breath in tandem with his brother, they closed their eyes, preparing themselves.

_Back, through the song, through the pain, through a path laid out long before, until there was nothing more but darkness, an emptiness.  Within it was a creature chained, yet not chained, waiting, and Celeborn was driven ever nearer, helpless.  It was more than darkness, more than the mere emptiness of light – it knew the light, and hated it, and would twist it for it's own wicked purpose.  It reached out, the barriers between its world and Celeborn's own thinning, and it laughed, and he knew that it would kill, it would maim, it would devour all the worlds in fire for nothing more than it's own amusement._

_Yet before he reached the brink, two flames identical reached out from Imladris, and pulled him back from the edge of the Void._

_Grandfather!  Grandfather!_

"Grandfather!  Wake, for Elbereth's sake!"

He came back into his body in a rush; suddenly nerves were awoken, senses on fire.  A shadow in the East…  Celeborn pushed the helping hands away from him, stood up, brushing his clothes down.

His left hand was still shaking, and he gripped the edge of the table in an attempt to make it stop.

"Grandfather?"

It took him a moment to focus, to figure out which twin had spoken – Elrohir, it was, with more blue in his grey eyes – and another long moment to find the words he searched for.

"Elrohir," he said, with calm he did not feel.  "Double the patrols on the Eastern borders. I ride to Gondor.  And send messengers to Rohan, Ithilien, Aglarond, and Eryn Lasgalen."

"Bearing what message?"

That Manwë-damned hand of his would not stop shaking; he wished for the calming presence of his wife.  "Beware the East." he said, and was away to the stables before either of his grandsons could respond.

-----

It felt wrong, somehow, to have given up the Key.  Morglin paced as Pallando fiddled with some Melkor-damned box.  It reminded him all too well of Saruman's toys – metal made to live.  Unnatural, even when placed among unnatural things.

Morglin preferred blood-magic, or even the straight-forwardness of a knife-kill, blade against flesh.  What could be more simple that that?  What could be more pure than blood-lust, uncomplicated, unmitigated, undisguised?

The wizard grunted as the Key slid into it's place, finally, with a resounding click.

"Ah."

"That is it?  That is the grand door I've been waiting for?"

Pallando laughed.  "The door?  Oh, no, my dear friend."  He twisted something, _pushed, and the mechanism began to spin, sending out shattered fragments of light that danced around the room, ever at the edge of sight, yet demanding attention.  His head hurting, he tried to close his eyes but could not, and found he could not look away._

"Oh, no, Morglin.  This is just the _map."_

-----

Dairuin hummed as he hauled up the fishing nets.  A good haul, a good haul.  It seemed the weather had been milder since the end of the Great War; the fishing was better, certainly.  And since Lord Imrahil's son in law had turned up with a horde of great thumping Rohirrim, there would probably be double orders coming down from the chef at Dol Amroth.

Not that Dairuin had anything against Rohirrim, especially when he was profiting from their presence, although why anyone would prefer a horse to a boat, he had no idea.  His partner, a grizzled old fellow named Dagnir, paused in his work suddenly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Get back to work, you lazy… dear Bema!"

Cutting through the water was a great black ship.  Hundreds of lesser vessels could be seen around the bay on a fine day – fishing ships, the leisure ships, taking Gondorian noblemen and fine ladies out for their amusements, and traders, making the run between Dol Amroth and the southern bays up to the Grey Havens, bringing supplies to all the little settlements that dotted the coastline.

Sometimes there would be seen larger ships also, ships as large as these, even.  But those were all of Elven-make, coming from the north, bearing Elves and their wares.  This was too crude, too dark, to be an Elf-ship.  And behind it was another, and another – many more soon appeared, smaller than the first, but no less deadly in appearance.

"Corsairs!" called Dagnir, rushing to up anchor, while Dairuin just stared.  Surely the Corsairs of had long been defeated?  Not hide nor hair of them had been heard since the end of the war.  Nor did these ships bear the emblem of Umbar; instead, they flew flags that showed seven silver stars, gleaming bright on a field of blue.

Even as he watched, as they came close enough for him to make out an armoured figure standing proud at the prow of the lead ship, the air began to shimmer, and without a sound, without a warning, without a _trace_, the ships vanished.

"Do I dream?" asked Dagnir, unbelieving.

"If you do, then it is a dream we share." replied Dairuin.  "But perhaps we shall something more to discuss Imrahil's gatekeeper than the weather and the price of fish."

Dagnir shivered.  "Let us go; I have no liking for these Corsairs that are not Corsairs, and for ships that vanish like ghosts into a mist."

"Agreed.  The fish will wait for us, I'd wager."  Dairuin turned his attention to the tiller, for once happy to be returning to shore.  Whether or not they would be believed when they got there was another matter entirely.

A/N:  Various names/places explained as follows:

Kementarí: 'Queen of the Earth', a name of the Vala Yavanna.

Artanis: Another name of Galadriel, given to her by her father, it means 'Noble Woman'

Eluréd and Elurín: Sons of Dior and Nimloth of Doriath, who would have been Elrond's uncles if they had lived; they were left to starve in the woods by the sons of Fëanor.

Fëanor, and sons of Fëanor:  Fëanor was Galadriel's cousin, and he and his sons were the culprits of the Kinslayings, the killings of Elf by Elf.  Doriath was the place of the second Kinslaying.

The Void: The emptiness beyond the world in which Morgoth, the first Dark Lord, was imprisoned at the end of the First Age.

Corsairs of Umbar: Umbar was a port, South of Gondor, on the edge of Harad, and the Corsairs, many of whom were originally from Númenor, the lost island of the Kings of Men, were pirates, who were constantly at war with Gondor.  Umbar was overrun by various armies throughout the years, and took heavy losses during the Ring War.  It was likely that very few Corsairs remained in the fourth age.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer:  As always, not mine, not mine, not mine.

A/N:  Thank you to all my reviewers, especially French Pony; this chapter is henceforth dedicated to you.  There will be much Faramir/Éowyn cuteness ahead. (Aww…)  And the chapters will get longer after this, bear with me.

Three years ago Morglin had run east like a dog with its tail between his legs.

Now, he returned with an army at his heels.  It was a pleasing thought.  The Easterlings had lost many of their men in the last war, but that fire, that unending thirst for revenge still burnt in them.  In their men; and in their women.  Many of those who now marched were widows and orphans of the first war; they had lost everything already, and the deserts of the East bred hardy folk.  What did they have to lose?

Other than life, that was, but they seemed to considered that a small sacrifice, and Morglin wondered, briefly, if they understood that they would die for their cause; not even for _their cause, but for Pallando's cause.  For Morglin's cause.  The army contained many of the race of Men, and what Orcs Morglin had been able to round up, some few hundreds, and a score or so of Uruk-hai.  Pallando had disappeared for a time, and returned with three great cold-drakes, lesser cousins of the great dragons who had once terrorised all the West.  These were not like the winged beasts that Sauron had bred for the Nazgûl to ride; they were wingless, like great lizards, three times as tall as a man, and almost ten times as long, from tip of their horned heads, to the end of their tails._

It was a great army, indeed.  When they reached Rhûn, it would be split in twain - one half would be under the command of an Easterling named Brodda, a tall brute of a fellow with a nasty temper.  Morglin was not quite sure if he trusted the man, but no matter.  Brodda's half would head south, to menace Rohan and Gondor beyond it; Brodda was aching for battle, that much was clear.  With any luck, he would not survive the coming war.

The other half of the army - including the drakes, for only Pallando could control them - would continue towards Mirkwood, to engage the Elves in battle.  It was a foolish thing, to challenge Elves on their own territory – but Morglin minded not.  The drakes would keep them occupied long enough; and long enough was all they needed.

For it was all a grand diversion, a distraction.  The true target was neither Rohan nor Mirkwood; it lay further west, although Pallando was avoiding speaking of their true destination.  Morglin was not quite sure if he trusted Pallando, either, but at the Key had been returned to him, and lay under his clothes, close to his heart.

At night, he dreamt of the Map, of what he had been shown, of what was yet to come.  He saw his revenge brought full circle, and the fall of Gondor, of Rohan, of all the West.  Sometimes the dreams struck during the day as well, leaving him gasping, afterimages blurring his sight.  Pallando was always most concerned for his well-being when the dreams came; Morglin wondered if the Key, and the Map, were showing him things that they would not reveal to the wizard.

And thus he claimed not to remember; Morglin knew too well the power that lay in secrets.  Even if they puzzled him; he winced as, even now, another image fluttered before his eyes.

This one had come before, and always accompanying it was a feeling of dread, a sickness in the pit of his stomach.  _Seven stars, on a field of blue…  What could it mean?  He knew not, but he'd would not admit that to Pallando._

-----

This dream was not new.

_The great wave rose up, the earth shuddering under his feet as it advanced, the sea, the eager sea, reaching up to swallow him whole, to swallow them all.  Atalantë, Atalantë…_

But it came more often now, and it kept changing, shifting.

_"Aglarrâma azûlada yanâkhim, Phazân  an'Nimir, Phazân  an'Nimruzîrim.  Hu-yanâkhim!"_

Faramir awoke with a start.  "Hu-yanâkhim…" he murmured, the strange word slipping easily off his tongue.  He winced as light streamed in from the open window, then scowled as he noted the position of the sun.  Not that he enjoyed the endless discussion with the squabbling lordlings of Ithilien, but this would be the third time this week he had been late to council.  He swore.

"Tsk, tsk.  Such language, my Prince."  Éowyn laughed, and well she might.  She had obviously already been up for a while, and was dressed for the greeting of visitors.  Although, Éowyn being Éowyn, the pale dress, sweeping round her ankles, was accompanied by a pair of brown leather riding boots, scuffed at the toe.  She caught his gaze, and grinned.

"Worry not.  I have told them that you are unwell, and luckily for you, a certain Elf and his friends have been more than happy to keep our visitors entertained for a while."  Éowyn tilted her head.  "I think that perhaps you _should speak to a healer, leofost.  You have not been sleeping well of late."_

"I do not need to see a healer." he told her, pulling on clothes haphazardly.  He detested diplomacy and bureaucracy, but he'd spent enough time in the Houses of Healing for a lifetime, thank you very much.

"Not even for a tisane to help you sleep?"

"For that least of all." Faramir mock-shuddered.  "I will not have any healers pouring foul brews down my throat.  I am _fine."_

"Your father," Éowyn told her belly, smiling, "Is very, very, stubborn."  To Faramir she said.  "I could handle the negotiations if you wished to rest further."  She moved over to help him smooth his unruly locks down, tutting absentmindedly at the crinkles in his shirt.

"Planning to take over, dear?"

"You know you would prefer it that way.  I could run Ithilien, and you would be free to go riding with Elves, or to lurk in the library, frowning over the translations of those long-lost texts you 'liberated' from the archives at Minas Tirith."

Faramir grinned sheepishly.  "That was a long time ago.  Besides, they were in danger of spoiling from the damp.  What else could I have done?  And it was Mithrandir's fault for encouraging me."

"Hmph."  Stepping back, Éowyn looked him over, apparently deciding that he was, in fact, fit for public viewing.  "We should not keep our guests waiting any longer.  They will think their Prince has deserted them."

Laughing, Faramir kissed her, then hooked his arm through hers, allowing himself to be guided downstairs.

A/N:  The name Brodda is stolen from the Silmarillion.  There aren't many 'authentic' Easterling names to chose from.

_Leofost_ is Old English (Rohirric), meaning 'dearest'.

The language Faramir hears in his dream is Adûnaic, the language of Númenor, the lost island home of the Kings of Men.  You'll have to wait for the translation, which hopefully I did not botch too badly.  Atalantë is Quenya, 'The Downfallen', and was an Elvish name for Númenor after its destruction.  Similarity to 'Atlantis' is supposedly completely intentional on Tolkien's part.

Cold-drakes:  Tolkien distinguished between two types of dragon – the fire-drakes, the fire-breathing dragons, of which Smaug was supposedly the last, and the cold-drakes.  They did not breathe fire, but were more numerous than their greater cousins, and during the Third Age became a menace to the Dwarves who mined the northern mountains.  They were supposedly driven back into the far north, and not heard from again.  Some had wings, and some did not.  It is possible that the winged beasts the Nazgul rode upon were cold-drakes, or some kind of descendant or relation of theirs.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The world belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Aria, and explains quite a lot of things.

"Hail, Elrohir o Imladris!  Hail, and well met!"

"Hail, Faelion."  Elrohir dismounted swiftly, coming to greet the sentry with a grin.  "And well met.  How fares Eryn Lasgalen?"

Faelion shrugged, even as the others in his patrol group came forth to greet Elrohir, in no particular hurry – they would have recognised him from far off.  "As well as ever.  We have been hunting much of late; scouring the last of the Orcs and spiders from every corner of the wood.  You bring a message for the King?"

Elrohir nodded.  "It is important that I speak to him.  Is he in his halls?"

"You are in luck.  He took a wound to the thigh a fortnight ago – nothing serious, and it heals well, but the Queen took one look at him and locked him in with the healers until further notice.  He'll be glad to see you, I'd warrant."

"Perhaps not so glad, when he hears the news I bring." replied Elrohir.  Faelion raised an eyebrow, but questioned him no further.  A few quick welcomes and jests were exchanged with the rest of the patrol, and then Elrohir rode on.  If they had wondered at the urgency in his tone and movements, than they said nothing of it, at least while he was in earshot.

Leaving his horse in the capable hands of the stable master, he moved swiftly through the halls; he had not been here in a while, but the great home of Thranduil had not changed enough through the years that he required a guide.  He almost laughed to see the artisans at work on one set of walls, finishing a series of mosaics showing Legolas in the Ring War.  No doubt Legolas himself would be eternally embarrassed by his father's need to display his pride in his son so publicly – it was not in his nature to boast.

The likeness was good, though.  Elrohir made a mental note to tease Legolas about that the next time they met – hopefully his Grandfather's dark warnings would not come to pass.  Celeborn had never laid claim to the Sight; had never so much as glanced at the Mirror.  Why now would he be struck by these strange visions?

Frowning in thought, Elrohir moved onwards, nodding at the Elves who ambled past, until he came at last to the halls of the healers.  He bit his lip, nervous.  This was going to be an interesting discussion, to say the least.

-----

Three separate groups of sailors had come to him in the past month, each bearing a similar tale.  A group of dark ships, that sailed out of the mist, and then disappeared without trace.

Now a letter from Dol Amroth lay upon his desk.  Imrahil, a sensible and solid fellow, whose Cirdan had always admired for the good condition in which he kept his docks, reported that many fishermen of the region had been claiming that 'ghost ships' were appearing in the bay, scaring away the fish – and the fishermen.  It was causing havoc on the trading ships, with some of the men refusing to go out to sea.

He drummed his fingers against the desk, wondering how to answer.  Then a sudden cry came from the docks; although it was a sunny day, the storm bell was being run, loud and fast.

Never had they been seen this close to shore, but there they were.  When Cirdan reached the docks, a crowd had gathered, discussing theories and sharing fears.  Even as they noticed the arrival of their Lord, and turned to bombard him with questions, the lead ship began to fade away, but not before turning broadside, allowing the standard to unfurl, fluttering in the wind, clearly visible to the Elvish eye.

Seven stars of silver, on a field of blue.  The murmurs in the crowd were clear; many among them were old enough to remember that device, and the home of its Lords.

_Númenórë.__  Númenórë Atalantë._

Cirdan was already hurrying back to his rooms, his quill calling.  He knew what message to send now; but it was not just to Dol Amroth that he would be writing.

-----

_Phazân  an'Nimir__, Phazân  an'Nimruzîrim…_

_The figure reached out to him.  A king of old, crowned with gold and rubies, but even as Faramir strained to see his face, the crown tumbled down, shattering into a thousand pieces.  The rubies melted before his eyes – they were as red as blood, and then they were blood, and the blood formed a river, coming towards him._

_No, not a river now but a great wave, a wall of blood.__  He saw Éowyn, clothed as a queen, but her crown was not intended to crown her, but to chain her, and she looked at him with hatred and laughed as the wave came crashing down upon her…_

When he woke up, Éowyn was gone, although a note and a cup of something foul smelling laid by the bed.

**Leofost****,**

**I have gone riding – do not worry, the healers say it is better for me to be getting a little exercise, rather than none at all.  Legolas accompanies me, so I will be well protected.   Speaking of healers, you are to take your dwæs hide to the hall today; you were turning in your sleep last night, and could not be woken.  You worry me, dear one.  I have left you some botwyrt; my grandmother Morwen always said it was good for the blood.  If nothing else, please try to drink some of it, will you?**

**Ever yours,**

**Éowyn.******

He sniffed at the healing mixture, and did indeed take a sip, before tipping the rest of the dark brew out the window.  Foul stuff indeed.  He folded the note back up and tucked it in a pocket; he liked to keep things that belonged to Éowyn, or that had been made by her hand; the flowers she had worn in her hair when they were married had been carefully pressed and kept; every letter or note that she ever wrote to him was filed away, to be reread later, so that he could smile at the endearments and insults she gave to him in equal measure, chuckle over the way she slipped into Rohirric, whether speaking or writing, when she felt the Westron tongue too clumsy for her purpose.

But he did not head to the healers quarters, as her note suggested – nay, demanded.  Instead, he detoured by the kitchens to grab himself an apple and a little bread and cheese – ah, the joy of simple foods – and then headed to the library.

His little library was growing by leaps and bounds now; all who knew him knew there could be no better gift for the Prince of Ithilien than a dog-eared book, the more obscure the better, which would be carefully restored.  The room boasted one desk and a reading chair; the rest was shelves and shelves of his precious volumes, neatly catalogued.

Now he scanned the shelves for a particular item; it was in fact one of those 'liberated' volumes that he had stolen away as a child, to be read by candlelight when he was supposed to be sleeping.  He spotted it quickly, the title picked out in rich gold lettering on the spine; The Tale of the Lost Isle of Númenor.

None were fluent in the language of Númenor, Adûnaic, in this day and age, not in Gondor, and it was a struggle to translate, trying to remember the words the ancient King had spoken to him.

Yanâkhim… that meant 'comes'.  Someone comes.  Phazân was prince.  The prince comes?  Then what was Aglarrâma?  Idly, he scrawled patterns on the paper with his quill, as he searched for the answers.  Something comes.  Something _eastward comes.  The prince… the prince of Elves.  Prince of Elves.  Prince of Elves, Prince of Elf-friends. He wrote the sentence down again, _

_Aglarrâma azûlada yanâkhim, Phazân  an'Nimir, Phazân  an'Nimruzîrim.  Hu-yanâkhim!_

Something Eastward comes, Prince of Elves, Prince of Elf-friends.  He comes!

His eyes flicked back up to the patterns he had been scribbling in the corners of the paper, and his heart stopped for a beat.  Seven stars.  Seven stars, bright on a dark field.  _Seven stars on a field of blue…_

Quickly he dropped the quill, searching for the book.  He had seen something, somewhere in this text, something about this.  Seven stars, and a ship.  A ship…  He stopped when an illustration was revealed.  A great black ship, that flew a banner showing seven stars.  A man stood at the prow.  Tall and dark and proud, he was, and underneath the picture there were but ten words written.  Ten words to explain all.

Aglarrâma, great ship of Ar-Pharazôn, last King of Númenor.

_Hu__-yanâkhim…_

"My lord?"

He looked up, to see one of the servants hovering, worriedly.

"Yes?"

"There is a messenger here to see you, your Highness.  An Elf, from Rivendell."

----

Celeborn stormed into the throne room of Gondor, the guards having evidently taken one look and decided that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try and have the Elf-Lord explain himself.  He'd given only a word of apology to his horse, which had been hard-ridden, before forcing his way without a word into the presence of the King and Queen.

"Grandfather!" Arwen cried with delight, hurrying forward to embrace him.  "It is so good to see you!"

"And you, beloved granddaughter.  And you as well, Elessar." he added, with a kindly nod towards Aragorn, who obviously did not want to interfere in the reunion.

Arwen finally released him, frowning slightly.

"What is wrong, Grandfather?"

He put a hand to her hair, held back in many braids, adorned with pearls and weighted down by her crown.

"You do not wear your hair down anymore." he said, quietly.  "But that is not what I have come to speak of."

"Then speak." said Aragorn.  "Whatever it is, it seems to be of importance."

"Whatever it may be," Arwen said, giving him a sharp look, "the telling of the tale can wait until you have resting a while.  You are shaking, Grandfather.  Come, sit down."

"Do you remember the Great Hall?" he asked, faintly.  "My father painted those murals; I remember, I watched him.  I helped mix the paints; I was only little then."  His left hand was still shaking, and he reached out to Arwen's shoulder, as if to steady himself.  "But of course," he continued.  "you cannot remember.  It was destroyed before your father was born."

He looked confused for a moment, his eyelids fluttering closed.  Then he stumbled; for a moment the watchers thought he would fall.  But he recovered quickly, standing tall again.

When he opened his eyes Arwen gasped, for they were no longer the bright blue she had known all her life, but a stormy grey.  And when he spoke, the voice was not Celeborn's either.

"I apologise." he said.  "I did not mean to harm him, but this _was necessary."_

"What was necessary?" snapped Arwen.  "Explain yourself!"

The voice was still calm.  "I have come to warn you.  For you are in danger; not just you, but all this world.  A great peril approaches, and I could remain silent no longer."

"Then speak." said Aragorn, his tone commanding.  "What peril do you speak of?"

"One greater than the will of one man, be he King or not.  So sit down, Estel.  And let me tell you the story of the Key."

A/N: _Númenórë Atalantë – _Númenor the downfallen.  (Quenya)

More Old English as Rohirric – leofost (dearest), dwæs (foolish), botwyrt – (healing herb)

Elf-friends, or Elendili, was the name given to the followers of Elendil, Isildur's father, and Aragorn's great-great-great-great-(etc)-grandfather – those of Númenor who were on the side of the Elves.  Ar-Pharazôn, the last King, was definitely not one of those number – he married his cousin, Tar-Miriel, by force (she should have been Queen in her own right), and rebelled against the Valar by trying to sail to Valinor.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

A/N: I'm getting to the action soon, promise!

When Faramir came downstairs, the messenger was waiting.  He was a tall Elf, engaged in conversation with Éowyn and Legolas, all three still wearing their riding clothes.

"We met him on the way," explained Éowyn, her hair loose and tangled after the ride.

The Elf bowed.  "Gildor Inglorion, of Imladris, at your service."

"And your message?"

"One that Lord Celeborn considered too important to entrust to mere paper.  Is there somewhere private we may speak?"

"Of course," Faramir replied, taking Éowyn's arm, but not before tugging a stray leaf out of her curls with a grin.  "Legolas, will you join in the discussion?"

"If it is appropriate." replied Legolas, looking to Gildor for confirmation.

Gildor nodded.  "I think that what I have to say involves all of Ithilien, Men and Elves both."

"Then it is settled.  Shall we?"

Only once the great oak doors were closed behind them did Gildor speak.

"Have you seen anything near Mordor?  Does anything yet stir in the dark realm?"

Faramir frowned.  "My patrols are still harassed by Orcs, but they are scattered, leaderless.  Legolas, would your people agree?"

Legolas nodded.  "We have hunted them back into the dark mountains.  Most of those who were left have fled East.  They lurk in the darkness, waiting for lone travellers, or the reckless and incautious.  The shadow recedes, though.  Ithilien blooms again, the trees sing, the mountains rejoice.  No, I do not think there remains any great danger from Mordor way."

Gildor frowned.  "Until recently, I would have agreed with you.  The twins still hunt Yrch, but each time they ride out there are fewer to slay.  The people grow content.  My Lords, they grow content and unwary."

"And you think that someone, or something, intends to disrupt that?" asked Éowyn.  "It is true, in these times of peace we perhaps grow lazy.  The patrols are used to winning; they tell tales of victory after victory, and their losses are few.  But the enemy they face now are weak."

"Perhaps not all the enemy is so weakened." added Legolas.  "Is that what you imply, Inglorion?  Can you not be more clear?"

The other Elf bowed his head.  "I apologise, son of Thranduil, for the manner of my speech, but the information we have received is unclear, at the best.  All I know is that the Lord Celeborn rode for Gondor, the day before I left Imladris.  His message to you was this: Beware the East.  No more, no less."

"We should, perhaps, increase the strength of the patrols to the East." said Faramir.

"And to the north as well." Éowyn added.  "Remember it is not only Mordor we may be dealing with, but Rhûn also."

"It shall be done." said Faramir.  "Gildor, can you offer us anything more?"

"I cannot." replied Gildor.  "I hope that it is enough."

"My archers will add their strength to yours," Legolas said, "But I fear I must depart.  I do not think the danger comes from Mordor but perhaps Rhûn, and if it is Rhûn from which the threat comes, then I must return to Eryn Lasgalen, to defend my kin."

"And you will be greatly missed," said Éowyn, embracing him.  "But you must not travel alone."  She turned her bright gaze on Gildor.  "Gildor, would you accompany him?"

"I would be honoured." replied Gildor.  Then he grinned.  "After all, he will need someone older and wiser, such as myself, to keep him out of trouble."

"Keep me out of trouble!" laughed Legolas.  "I should imagine I will have my hands full, just keeping up with your mischief."

The two Elves left, light banter floating back down the hall.

"Are you feeling well?" Éowyn asked Faramir, a look of concern on her face.

"A little tired," he admitted, "but I will live."  He brushed her hair away from her face, leaning in for a kiss.  "Do not worry."

"I will be watching you." she warned, wagging a finger.  "You should take better care of yourself."

"Yes, Naneth." he said, laughing.  "I am starving, as a matter of fact.  You can scold me further over lunch."

-----

"Who are you?"

"That is not of importance at the moment, Undomiel."  The figure paused.  "But you may call me Luin, if you wish to give me a name."  He took a seat, either unaware or uncaring of the eyes focused on him.

"Then why are you here.  And why…" Arwen waved a hand at the form of her grandfather, sprawled in the seat in a most un-elven way, the grey eyes of a stranger staring back at her.

"Why like this?  I had no other choice.  I needed to return, to warn you; dear Celeborn was simply the most appropriate host I could find."

"The unhoused…" muttered Arwen, uneasy, and Aragorn looked unsettled.

"That is close enough a description for me, yes.  In the end, the story I have come to tell is about one who you might call 'unhoused'.  The greatest of all Ainur, and the most vile and treacherous.  The Key is a tool of Morgoth, a creation of his long hidden."

"And what does it do?" Aragorn asked.

"More to the point," added Arwen, "what does it open?"

-------

Thranduil was propped up in bed wearing nothing more than a pair of leggings and a scowl, and bearing a fair number of wounds, a lattice-work of scratches that would probably fade and not add any more scars to his already impressive tally.

"Come to relieve my boredom, Elrondion?"

That was a hint that Thranduil wasn't sure which of the twins he was.  "Elrohir at your service, your Majesty.  I bear a message from Lord Celeborn."  He paused.  "You must have been badly injured, Thranduil, if you are still in bed."

"Mind your tongue."  But the Elf-king was chuckling.  "I had a little argument with an Uruk.  Unfortunately, it was immediately followed by a rather more serious argument with a thornbush."  He eyed Elrohir.  "What is this message, Elrohir, that is so important thatHi you have to interrupt my convalescence with it?"

"A strange and dire one, but grandfather Saw it, and I have no reason to doubt him.  Beware the East."

"Strange and unhelpful."  Thranduil frowned.  "There was nothing more?  Celeborn is not the type to trust in such vagaries."

Elrohir shrugged.  "He was not specific, but…" He frowned, thinking of his grand-fathers strange behaviour. "I would say that this was important, all the same."

"I will send some small scouting parties eastwards." Thranduil said.  "That is the only sensible course of action at this time."

Elrohir bowed low.  "Very sensible, your  Majesty.  I must take my leave though, and continue East – to warn the Men of Dale, and the Dwarves in the Iron Hills and under the Mountain.  If you could lend me a horse, I would be most grateful – I do not want to tire my steed out any more than necessary"

Thranduil nodded.  "Take your pick from the stables."  He grimaced.  "I wish you well on your journey – I only wish that I could join you, because if I spend one more moment in this room I think I may go mad."

"I am afraid, Thranduil, that not even for you will I risk your wife's wrath."

"Ai, and I do not blame you for that." Thranduil grinned broadly.  "Her fëa burns brightly indeed." he added, fondly.

"Rest well."

"Take care, Elrohir, and may Elbereth guide your steps."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

A/N: There is a _lot of exposition here.  I am sorry for the info-dump.  Next chapter we go to Rohan – and to war._

Luin stretched in the seat and began his tale:

"Long ago, when Sauron was but the lieutenant of Morgoth, the Key was forged in the darkness of Angband.  For Morgoth in his heart feared the Valar, his brothers and sisters, and the will of Eru, and knew that if they overcame him he would be cast out from the world.  The Void was the one thing he feared most – and against this eventually he made a Key – a door, or perhaps you may think of it as a thread.  He bound himself, in part, to _this_ world with it's help, so that even if he was overthrown he might find a way to return."

"This story sounds over-familiar." mused Arwen.  "Echoes of the One Ring."

"Yes, and perhaps it was in Angband that the seeds of that idea were laid down in the mind of the Abhorred, for I suspect that he had a part in its forging.  And it was to Sauron, Morgoth's most trusted lieutenant, that the Key was given, to keep it safe until such time that it was needed."

"But when Morgoth was cast out to the Void…"

"Then Sauron turned against his once-Master.  No craft of his could destroy the Key, not entirely, but he took great pains to ensure that it would never be used.  It was split into three pieces; two he sent to the East to be hidden, and one kept with him.  There were hints of it's existence in the annals of Númenor; we know he had it then.  After that – who knows?"

"And who is _we?" asked Arwen, slightly snappish.  "Who are _you_?"_

The door to the throne room slammed open; a brown robed figure entered, brandishing a staff of oak and shadowed by two apologetic looking guards.  "Alatar, you old fool! Explain yourself at once, or get thee hence from your stolen hroa!"

"Radagast."  The form of Celeborn stood and bowed, a little stiffly.  "I will vacate my host when the story is done, and no sooner.  This is a matter of great importance, and I have wasted enough time seeking a form able to withstand my presence long enough."

Aragorn waved the guards away, offering the newly arrived Wizard a seat, which he took gratefully.  Alatar likewise sat.  Radagast glared at him.  "I _know it's important.  Why do you think I'm here?  But if you're going to tell the story, then get on with it." To Aragorn and Arwen, he said "Alatar and Pallando were inseparable.  And insufferable, but that's a different story.  Soon after we arrived on the shore, Pallando uncovered rumours of a device that would allow Morgoth to escape his imprisonment, and he and Alatar headed East to try and find – and destroy – it.  Saruman went with them, but for different reasons, and according to his story they went their separate ways before long, and he returned, while they did not."_

Alatar nodded.  "That much is true.  Saruman did not think much of our search – which was fairly fruitless to begin with, but Pallando was insistent, and we moved far to the East in our search for information.  Everything that we found suggested that at least two pieces of the Key were to be found there.  Eventually, we found the first piece.  Even the sight of it made grown men feel ill – it resonated with pure malice.  Yet Pallando seemed excited – no, overjoyed – to have found it.  Every method we tried to destroy it made not a single mark.  No weapon, no magic, no fire or forge could so much as dent it."  He looked troubled.  "I wished to return with it to the West, to let the Valar attempt to destroy it – or at least contain it.  But Pallando… perhaps I should have seen the signs.  He insisted that we continue onwards, to find the second piece.  He said once that it _sang to him.  I could not in good faith leave him alone with that thing, and I dared not try to take it from him."_

"So Pallando fell." murmured Radagast.

"Aye." said Alatar.  "After all that we had struggled to find the first piece, finding the second was almost easy.  As if it wanted to be found.  And Pallando – he tried to put them together.  He said it was the only way to find the third, but in my heart I knew that he had succumbed to the temptation of Morgoth.  Even from beyond the circles of the world, the dark Vala had managed to corrupt him.  And so I fought him, and after a battle long and bloody I fled west, the second piece in my possession but my physical form wounded beyond repair.  I went as far west as I could, before with the last of my power sealing myself – and the second piece of the Key – in a cairn surrounded with the strongest wards I could muster."

"But that tomb, which should have remained forever inviolate, has been breached." said Radagast.  "The second piece has been found."   He glared at Alatar again.  "Not an event that would have gone unnoticed by any with power.  Darkness in the East stirs… and there will be no more aid from Valinor, not this time.  If the Darkest is released back into the world – you do not need me to tell you, Elessar, of the war that we would fight then."

"King Elessar!"  One of the guards came hurtling into the throne room, bowing even as he skidded to a halt.  "The beacons…"

------

"We will send as many as we are able, but we must reinforce the borders as well.  We _cannot_ take the chance."  Éowyn's brow furrowed as she considered just how many that would be.  "Halifirien is on the very edge of the Eastfold, Beregond.  My brother would have had to send Riders there to have it lit… there is no time for more delay.  I should hope that Elessar has already sent reinforcements from Minas Tirith."

"Yes, Lady Éowyn, and he leads them." Beregond fidgeted.  "You say the Prince is unwell? Who then will lead your troops?"

"I will." Any arguments Beregond might have been thinking were quelled with a look.  "I promise you, I will not put myself on the front lines." _Unless it becomes absolutely necessary._ "But this is a duty I owe twice over – once to my brother, and once to Éomer King.  Legolas' people will fight for us as well – I will see to it.  And our enemies will learn the folly of pitting themselves against the Riddermark."

She sent riders to the Elves, to ask for their assistance; and Beregond went with her men, to organise the warriors of Ithilien.  They were nothing if not efficient; she had no doubt that they would be readied by nightfall; they would leave at dawn.  Only when all she had to do in aid of Rohan was done, only then did she allow herself to retreat back upstairs.  She ought to rest, after all.

The healer met her at the door.  "No change.  He sleeps still."

Still was the word for it, for Faramir lay as still as the dead, for all he breathed yet, for all his heart beat.  To think that she had woken early that morn, and slipped out of bed, dressing for her morning ride in the dark because she _had not wished to wake him.  When she had returned, he had still slept, and her laughter as she scolded his sleeping form for his slothfulness had turned to concern, and then horror. She took his hand, reassuring herself that it was warm yet.  "What have you done for him?"_

"There's no fever, no sign of injury at all." The healer looked apologetic – Éowyn had the sudden urge to slap her for it.  "We cannot heal what isn't there, your highness.  We tried what we could, but-"

"Thank you." She had no wish to listen to a litany of failures.  "You may go."  She locked the door behind the healer, restraining her temper only just.  Heaving a sigh, she quickly stripped off to her underthings, curling around Faramir and stroking his hair away from his face.  Eventually, lying there listening to him breathe, sleep claimed her, and she slumbered, but did not dream.

A/N: Halifirien is the name of the western-most beacon.  The setup of the beacons is such that it's much more convenient for Minas Tirith to call on Edoras for aid than the other way around, but there's no reason to say that it couldn't be done.  Hroa=body.  The Riddermark is the name of Rohan that the Rohirrim themselves used, and the Eastfold is… shock, horror, the name for the eastern part of the Riddermark.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing.

A/N: Sorry about the delays.  This is what happens when you let bunnies eat your brain.

"Should we not head for Helms Deep, Éomer King?"

"No.  I will _not_ give them free reign to wander round the Riddermark as they please."  As usual, the only mark of rank Éomer had bothered with was his armour, Gamling noted.  And he appeared to be in one of those moods, which meant that arguing with him was _almost_ as good of an idea as standing your ground in front of a panicked stallion; and probably more dangerous.  The boy was going to be the death of him, Gamling was sure of it.  "Reinforcements _will_ come from Gondor."

"But they are not here _yet_." pointed out Erkenbrand gently.  "And we are outnumbered near three to one…"

"Then there will be plenty for all of us." the King snarled.  "And the day that a rider of the Riddermark is not worth three foul orcs or squabbling Easterlings, is the day I lay down my sword."

"The Lord of the Glittering Caves!" called a herald outside.  "The dwarves have come!"  Éomer smirked at Erkenbrand and Gamling and stalked outside to greet his old friend, while the two of them just shook their heads.

"I might have told you." said Elfhelm, grinning from his chair; he had not bothered to engage himself in the conversation.  "Besides, with the addition of our squat axe-swinging friends, it's probably only, what, two and a half to one?"

"You're as bad as _he_ is." muttered Gamling, glaring.  "How do you propose to count the halves?"

"Depends on how we split them.  Straight down the middle, or side to side."  He punctuated this statement with wild swings of his hands, mimicking the appropriate sword-strokes.  "Come on, my friends.  Better go make nice with the dwarves."

-----

"Seeing as that _Elf_ is not here, my friend, we will have to make do with competing among ourselves.  Although with a thousand of my kinsfolk here, I'm afraid there might not be enough to go round!"

Éomer looked out to where the enemy lines could be seen, halted for now, fires in the shadows of early evening showing how far they stretched out.  They were held in a stalemate – every moment of delay was another moment in which aid might arrive from Gondor.  Yet their position was precarious; they could not afford to give the enemy the chance to flank them.  "There will be enough to go round." was all he said, although he couldn't help but grin at Gimli's posturing.

"This is the only place they can cross?" Gimli asked, grinning back. 

"Unless orcs can learn to swim in armour, yes.  The Entwade is their only path; and they will not find it an easy path to tread, with the Riders waiting for them on the other side.  And the Dwarves, of course." he added hurriedly, lest Gimli be offended.  "But this is the dry season; day by day the 'wash subsides and the 'wade widens.  Every day their position strengthens.  They will attack soon."

As if on cue, Elfhelm bolted into the tent.  "They're on the move."

-----

 There were not as many the patrols had suggested, but the force the Rohirrim and the Dwarves faced was still far greater than them in numbers, and had the advantage of the night.  Still, the terrain might yet prove the deciding factor; as long as Éomer's warriors stayed on the western bank of the Entwash, they could deal with the enemy one part at a time, picking them off while the rest remained stuck on the eastern banks, helpless.

That was the theory, at least.  But theories did not provide much comfort when you waited in the dark for the battle to begin.  Horses shifted, picking up on their rider's nerves and the smell of orc on the wind.  "Are they fools?" Gamling hissed.  "They have no advantage but numbers."

"Perhaps they think that is enough." murmured Erkenbrand.  "Pass the word among the men; hold back, or the horses will charge right through their lines, and they'll find themselves an island in a sea of orcs."

"This feels wrong." muttered Éomer.  "There's no sense to their actions; but I don't think they're fools.  Hold firm, and patience.  There'll be enough blood shed before sunrise without anyone offering the Bema-cursed orcs an opening."  He said it as much for himself as for anyone else; Firefoot snorted and stamped, impatient as his rider.

There was suddenly a cry from those on the north flank – Erkenbrand hurried to see, for it was his Eored, and like the men around him, swore under his breath as a Rider came crashing into the camp from the north, one of those who had been sent out to patrol.

It was surprising that he'd managed to stay on his horse.  A black arrow protruded from his side – he'd snapped off half of the shaft but his clothing was soaked with dark blood.  Sending the exhausted horse off to be fed and taken care of, Erkenbrand leant over the man, while frantic healers busied themselves around him, and listened carefully to message he choked out.

"Riders of the Westmark!" he called.  "Turn and form ranks to the north!"  Even as they moved to obey he was wheeling to return to Éomer and the other Marshalls.  "Some of the Easterlings circled round.  They're coming from the north.  Some two thousand strong, maybe more.  They've been killing as they go – they crossed the river to the north and they're not but an hour's ride away from us."

"We can't retreat, and they know it." Gamling growled.  "We'd have Orcs nipping at our heels all the way back to Edoras."

"All we have to do is hold them back until Aragorn arrives."  Eomer glared in the general direction of the Orcs who were still milling about on the other side of the river; waiting for a signal.  "The Entwash will run black with orc-blood before we are done here."

-----

The cold-drakes were screeching again, arching their long necks into the air and looking for food – or unwary members of Pallando's army – moving around in the night.

It was giving Morglin a headache.  No-one dared complain about the beasts who accompanied them – Pallando usually fed them on horses, but wasn't above turning an Orc or Easterling or two into drake-food.  If they were very lucky, he'd have their throats slit first.

"Why are we heading towards the Elf-wood?" he asked, ill-tempered.  "Is our purpose there?"

"No."  Pallando sipped at a goblet of wine he had somehow acquired.  "Our destination is beyond.  We pass through the northern reaches of the wood and cross the mountains into Ettenmoor, staying well north of Imladris to avoid detection.  After that – west."

"Yes," grumbled Morglin, "because three screeching cold-drakes and a small army of Orcs and Men will go perfectly unnoticed."

"When we cross the mountains, my dear boy, we will be doing so ialone/i.  My drakes, along with the rest of the army, will be staying behind to keep the Elves… suitably occupied."  Pallando reached over to pour himself some more wine.  "After all, my poor beasts can't be expected to spend all their time eating just Orcs and filthy Men and their horses.  They deserve much sweeter meat."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing, apart from the random OCs.

They made as much haste as they dared – they needed to be able to fight when they reached Éomer and his men.  Faramir and the forces of Ithilien would no doubt be riding but a day or two behind, but there was no time to wait for them.  As they rode through Anorien, to the ford of the Mering Stream that marked the most direct route from Minas Tirith to Edoras, a halt was called as two Riders came forth from the ford.  One had but one arm, but rode masterfully despite it; both of them, it could be seen as they grew closer, were older, grizzled, and not looking at all happy to be there.

But they were happy to see the men of Gondor.  The one-armed rider, who seemed to be the leader of the two, introduced himself as Mægen, and the other as Meagol.  "About time you got here." he said, not bothering with formality.  "It's not Edoras you need to be heading for.  Most ev'ry man in the Riddermark's at the Entwade – with more Bema-cursed Orcs and Easterlings on the other side of the river than I like to think about.  Would be there ourselves, but Éomer King himself gave me my orders.  More important to make sure _you_ get to the right place right quick, although I can tell you that crippled or no, I'd have taken a good few of them with me!"  He grinned, and his companion nodded in agreement.

At the ford they stopped for a moment while horses and men both were watered and fed.  Aragorn questioned Mægen and Maegol a little more, although they did not have as many answers as he was hoping for.  All they knew (or at least, all Mægen knew, for Maegol was mostly silent), was that there were more of the enemy than there were of them, although they did have one more piece of information that brought at least a little joy to Aragorn's heart.  A messenger had been sent to Aglarond some days ago, about the same time they had been sent here themselves, and Aragorn could not imagine that Gimli would have failed to respond.

Looking a little wistfully at those heading to war, Mægen and Maegol remained at the fords as Aragorn's men now turned North, heading along the western bank of the Entwash towards the Entwade at speed, black and silver pennants streaming out behind them, the last of the daylight glinting off sword and shield as they went.

-----

The first words that Thranduil said when he saw Legolas were, "Pay no attention to your Naneth.  There's not a thing wrong with me."  Indeed, although he had gained a scar from his most recent adventure, he was quite happily no longer confined to his bed, and was thus in a far better mood.  "You will have to take a look at how the murals are coming along – Seregon is really very skilled, and it's a wonderful likeness."  

Gildor grinned at Legolas.  "Ah, are these the ones that tell the tale of your adventures in the war?  They sound fascinating."  Legolas was turning an interesting shade of pink – it was one thing to be proud of your son, but Thranduil had turned boasting about him into both his favourite hobby and a kind of art form.  Luckily, this particular line of discussion was brought to an abrupt halt when the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall hard enough to make the hinges complain.

"Legolas, how wonderful to see you!  Of course, your Adar – who is supposed to be resting still, by the way – did not bother to inform me that you had arrived –" Thranduil's protestations to the contrary were ignored "but it is very nice to have at least an occasional visit from my son once in a while."

"Elloneth…"

"Hush, Thranduil.  I suspect this is not a social visit, however – has Celeborn been stirring things up in Ithilien as well?"

Legolas smiled.  "I was concerned, Naneth.  It is not like Lord Celeborn to give warning without reason."

"It is best to be cautious, that is true."  This last was aimed at Thranduil, who glared and huffed, but refused to respond to his wife's baiting.  "Patrols have been sent out, my dear son.  There is no need to worry.  Now," she said, moving to fuss with one of Legolas' braids, apparently not neat enough for her liking, "shall we move this reunion to some place a little more cozy?  Has your father told you how about the murals, Legolas?"

Gildor chuckled even as Legolas groaned.  "Yes, Naneth."  He fidgeted under her gaze.  "Maybe we could go take a look – later."  _Much later, _he added silently.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I'm so slow.  I'm sorry!  As usual, I lay no claim to the works of Tolkien – the only things that are mine in here are Bruieth and Brodda, and Brodda's name I stole from the Silmarillion.  (What can I say, there aren't many authentic Easterling names lying around.)

Bruieth was not the sort of woman who panicked easily.  A wide-shouldered widow who along with her sister had worked in the Houses of Healing since they'd both been old enough to fetch herbs and bind wounds, she'd left two daughters in Minas Tirith and the grave of a husband somewhere on the Pelennor fields to follow the household of Captain Faramir to Ithilien.  Prince Faramir he was now, but as likeable and unassuming a Prince as Bruieth thought you would find anywhere.  She seldom had to deal with him – unless his formidable wife drove him down to Bruieth's halls to seek medicine for this illness or that (so very much like any other man in that respect).  But Éowyn had yestermorn ridden for Rohan with what had seemed like half the able-bodied men in Ithilien, and it had been left to Bruieth to keep an eye on the Prince, still slumbering without any sign of sickness.

That in itself had been a worry.  She'd seen more than a few men and woman in the long-slumber in Minas Tirith, but there was always a reason.  A blow to the head might do it, or some types of ague – either way, there would be _something_, some injury, some fever, some hint as to what was wrong.

If that had worried her, then this was a thousand times worse.  For Estë's sake, he'd not been left alone more than an hour – Bruieth had been taking her evening meal, and had make the mistake of trusting an apprentice to not shirk their duties.  The apprentice, red-faced, had been the one to discover the problem first, after she'd decided to finish gossiping with their friends and actually peek inside the sick-room to check on her patient.

"His horse is gone from the stables."  Some apprentice or other had come skidding back into the room, fidgeting nervously with the knowledge that he had just blurted out something that Bruieth had _not_ wanted to hear.

"How could he have woken up and walked out of here without anybody noticing?"  The apprentice was luckily smart enough to realise that this was a rhetorical question, and did not answer her.  "Let alone get into the stables, saddle up his horse and ride out."  

"One of the kitchen girls thinks she might have seen him…"

"Thinks, and might have, aren't going to do us any good now."  Bruieth sighed.  What was she supposed to do now?  She'd _lost_ the Prince, and she hadn't even the faintest idea where he might have gone.  "Just keep asking.  Somebody must have seen him, know which way he went."  Somehow she didn't think the Prince's esteemed wife would take 'we lost him' as a suitable excuse.

-----

Brodda grinned, the wind on his face and the scent of battle in the air.  The Wizard had appointed him as chieftain of this army; it had been Brodda's idea to sneak around the side of the Horsemen before they engaged, although he'd half been hoping that the strawheads would attack the filthy Orcs before Brodda's men had to have anything to do with it.  If it wasn't for the Wizard (whose powers he'd seen first-hand and had no wish to run afoul of), he would have done without, although the filth did have their uses.  Like now.

At Brodda's signal, an archer sent a flaming arrow arcing over the river in the darkness.  Assuming the Orcs yet obeyed, they would attack upon that signal, leaving the Rohirrim unready for Brodda's own forces when they swept down from the North.  They would be close enough for archers soon – he imagined he could already see the glint of swords, the gleam of war spoils.

Very soon.

-----

One of the guardsmen spotted it first – a flaming arrow high over the Entwash, a signal of some kind – and it did not take long to guess what kind as the Orcs came streaming over the river, trampling over the bodies of their fellows as they piled up and pushing their way into the Rohirric army.

Then there _was_ another army to the north.  But Éomer did not have time to think of that – Erkenbrand was on the north flank and would know to keep an eye on his men, ready to turn and face the new threat when it came to that.  For now, they had Orcs to deal with – behind the seething masses on the front lines were hiding archers, and black arrows rained down upon friend and foe alike.

In the close quarters, the horses gave some advantage but not as much as might have been thought – the filthy orcs must have known what they were up against, and were matching spear with spear.  There were more than a few trolls among their number, too – Éomer, already up to his elbows in black blood, had sunk a spear into the throat of one, only to nearly get his arm taken off for his trouble.  It had taken several more blows to kill the cursed thing – Gimli and his fellows had proven their worth there, with the axes of the dwarves felling trolls left and right.  A cry of _Baruk__ Khazâd!_ rose up as yet another went down – and it was the riders of the Mark who were beginning to gain the advantage now, slowly but surely.

It was still dark when the Easterlings rushed them – all he heard was a cry from the north, and then they were turning as best they could to push back this new threat; more black arrows, and although the Easterlings must have been putting out a good burst of speed on the march to make it to the battle, they were not battle-wearied as Éomer's men (and dwarves).  He found himself near enough to the northern edge to work his way towards this newer threat; when the sun came up the Orcs would not be nearly as much of a problem, and some had already turned tail and ran before the Easterlings had arrived.

A curse on his lips and sword firmly in hand, he fought his way towards the front.  He could see the commander of the Easterlings – like Éomer, obviously not a man to stand back and let his men do the fighting for him, and with a yell headed for him.  If the leader could be removed, then the rest of the men would lose heart.

The enemy stood aside; the leader had seen him, and snarled something in their own tongue – threat or promise – that mostly cleared Eomer's path.  But the remaining Orcs were not as well-mannered; it was still a fight to move forward, although the Easterling leader was killing the few who got in his way as he charged towards Éomer.

"Éomer!" He hadn't realised Erkenbrand had been so close, but that was his voice raised in warning; then something hit him square in the back,  and he was flung sprawling forward into the blood-stained dirt of the battlefield.

A/N: And random trivia: Estë is one of the Valar, and was traditionally associated with healing.


End file.
